The Woman Next Door (23 page)

Little Rat said, "He died, huh?"

"Yeah." Greg sniffled. "My dad and me were
playin
' in the yard with him, and he ran into the street and a car hit him." He nodded toward the window. "We buried him '
longside
the garage. My dad said he'd be warm there 'cause it was away from the wind. I knew he didn't need to be warm no more; I knew he was dead."

"Buried him next to the garage, huh?"

"Yeah. It was a good place. He used to play around there a lot. He used to have this fake bone—leather,
ya
know—and he used to play with it. Used to try and tear it away from me. He was pretty strong. I buried it with him. I thought. . . ." He stopped.

"Yeah?" coaxed Little Rat.

"I thought,
ya
know, that if he had some little spirit—his ghost—I thought that
buryin
' him with that fake bone, and where he liked to play, that he could go on
playin
' there forever."

"I had a cat once," Little Rat said, "and when it died, I buried it with a little toy mouse that it liked to play with, 'cause I thought the same thing."

"My mother dug Charlie up," Greg said. The tears were gone. His voice was suddenly filled with bitterness. "She put him in a garbage can for the garbage men to take away. She said that dead things brought rats around. She said that dead is dead, and the quicker I knew that, the quicker I'd be a man."

Little Rat said nothing.

"I caught her
diggin
' him up," Greg went on. The bitterness had been replaced by a kind of tight resignation, as if he were asleep and about to have one of his nightmares and knew there was nothing he could do about it. "She showed me his little body on the shovel and she said I should take a long, hard look at it, that it was where we'd all end up someday, so I had to take what I could get."

"What'd she mean by that?" asked Little Rat.

"I don't know," Greg answered.

June 12, 1961

D
amn that kid! Damn her! They'd found out because of her. She'd suffered through all those stupid, embarrassing questions because of her. Because of her,
freakin
' big mouth. Damn her to hell!

"What were you thinking about, Miss King? Was it a joke?"

"I told you, I didn't call
anyone
!"

"Miss King, you can forget your denials. We do not believe you."

"I don't care
what
you
freakin
' believe."

It was clear that the child hated her—crystal clear; otherwise she would have kept her big mouth shut.

"You caused Mrs.
Vanderburg
no end of heartache. You're quite lucky she's not going to press charges; otherwise you'd find yourself in a juvenile home."

"But I keep telling everyone, I didn't
do
anything."

"Mrs. Williams was more philosophic about the whole matter. She said you were a very troubled girl. And that's why you're here. We have decided that you may need counseling. Do you think you need counseling, Miss King?"

So, let the kid cry! Let her! If she was wet, so what? If she was cold, so what? If she was thirsty, or afraid of the dark, or if there were spiders crawling all over her, who gave two
shits
? The kid deserved
whatever
she got!

"I'm going to ask you some questions you may find uncomfortable."

"I won't answer them."

"It's really in your best interests. We want to help you."

"
We?
Who's
we
?"

"Everyone who knows you and cares about you. Do you think no one cares about you?"

"I never thought about it."

"Be truthful, now."

"I never thought about it. I
never
, honest to
freakin
' God, thought about it. Jesus H. Christ, do you think everything I say is a
freakin
' lie?"

"Of course not. Do you think that's what people think, that you're constantly lying?"

"I never thought about
that
, either. I don't care what people think. I really don't."

Or if she'd caught her hair in the crib springs, or fallen on her oh-so-pretty face, or got zapped into another
freakin
' dimension, who in the fuck gave a damn?

The babysitter examined the rage that was building inside her; she was fascinated by it. It seemed so powerful, so all-consuming, like a great fire. And she knew she could control it, call it up at will. It was a rage that was almost pleasurable—a kind of sexual pleasure, she supposed.

"Does your, uh . . . your physical development disturb you?"

"
Freakin
' pervert!"

"That is not my intention in the slightest, young lady, not in the slightest, and you can wipe that grin off your face, too."

"Simpering son-of-a-bitching pervert!"

"Your vocabulary is astounding. Now, will you please answer my question."

"Why?"

"Because we think your answer may have some bearing on what troubles you."

Yes, it was there—her power—easily called up, easily controlled, an easy source of pleasure. Goddamn
freakin
' little shit-assed kid!

The babysitter screamed loud and long. She found pleasure in it—enormous, dizzying pleasure. But there was pain, too, a pain that lingered long after the scream ended—pain in the accusations that had been made, in the questions that had been asked, in the shared, knowing glances.

Damn that kid all to hell!

"We are not communicating, Miss King. I really wish we could communicate."

"Yeah? Is that why you ask about my
freakin
' tits, you pervert?"

"Young lady, that language is appalling. They are not 'tits'; they are 'breasts.'"

"They sure as fuck are, and they are
big
, aren't they, and you really want to get
freakin
' hold of '
em
, don't
ya
, huh? Don't
ya
?"

"You may be excused. And you may return only when you have decided to use language befitting a young lady."

The babysitter despised the pain. The rage and the anger were wonderful, but the pain was nightmarish. And the horror of it was, the rage and the pain were inseparable.

W
hat happens now?
he thought.
I am dying In someone's cold attic, so what happens now?

He decided that death was probably a couple days off. He would die of hunger. And of the injury to his head. Or—it was possible—be would die because he didn't know who he was or precisely where he was or why he had been put here. He would die because he was a nonentity.

"Christ!" The word, unintelligible, stumbled off his lips.

He found that he could turn his head slightly. He saw a floor-standing lamp nearby; its cord had been wrapped around its base, and it was minus a shade.

"I don't know, it probably needs rewiring. I'll get to it one of these days."

"Sure you will. Why don't you just put it upstairs, in the attic?"

Sure you will
. . . He let the voice repeat itself. He winced at the pain; he knew the voice, knew it well. It was a part of him, a part of his life. He was tied to it.

Death was not a pleasant thing to think about. He was used to living, had grown to expect it. He remembered thinking it would be nice to be senile and babbling when death came, and so be ignorant of it.

Dying of a head injury and hunger in someone's cold attic was . . . interesting. And bizarre. If it were someone else it was happening to, and he felt comfortably removed, he would comment sympathetically on it.

"Look at what it says here. It says this guy was found dead in someone's attic."

"It's no concern of ours, Brett."

Brett?

The pain was sudden, and severe, as if the left side of his head had been pumped up with small, pointed stones.

He heard himself scream. He hated himself for it, felt small and helpless.

He smelled anchovies and mint jelly.
Christ! A concussion!

A wave of nausea flowed over him. It carried the smells with it; it settled on his eyelids and in a thick, undulating line down his stomach.

He turned his head sharply and vomited. He turned his head again, away from the vomit.

He welcomed unconsciousness as if it were an old friend.

I
t was the first time Marilyn had noticed it and it unsettled her. It was around the eyes, she decided. Something she had seen before, a long time ago. Decades ago. It had unsettled her then, too. She wished she could recall it precisely, pin it down; then, she thought, it wouldn't unsettle her so much.

She went on, wondering how long she had paused: "It's true, Christine: I haven't heard from Brett in days. His secretary and some of his workers have called, wondering where he is and what they're supposed to do, but what can
I
tell them? I haven't the faintest idea where he is." She paused again, looked away.

"Is something wrong, Marilyn?"

Marilyn looked back, saw the concern in Christine's eyes. But, mixed with it, alternating with it, the thing she had seen before—the determination. And the pain. "No, nothing," she said. "I'd tell you if there was."

"I hope you would. I like to think we're friends, Marilyn."

Marilyn looked sharply to the left, toward the stairs. Had Christine heard that scream? She looked back.

"Marilyn, I wish you would tell me what's upsetting you."

Marilyn stared quizzically. How could Christine not have heard? "Nothing." She stopped, listened, expected the scream to be repeated. It wasn't. "I think it's probably just . . . all that's been happening." She stopped again; Greg would have to get a good talking to.

"You must get very lonely here," Christine said.

Marilyn nodded once, grimly. "I do, on occasion. But it's a cross I can bear." She looked again toward the stairs, thought of asking Christine if she'd heard anything, "sort of like a scream." Because there really was no way she could have missed it. "Christine, did you—?"

"I'm a cat lover," Christine interrupted. "I always have been. But I hate the sound of a cat fight, don't you?"

Marilyn stared at her, bewildered. "Cat fight?"

"I guess because cats can sound so . . . human."

"Cats?" And, at last, she understood. She smiled a long-suffering smile. "Yes, of course. Personally, I hate cats. Dogs, too. Greg had a puppy once. I believe he thought more of it than he did of me."

Christine smiled. "I'm sure it was your imagination."

"I don't think so, but, at any rate, we were able to get rid of it." She stood. "Could you excuse me just a moment, Christine?"

"Certainly."

"I've got to check on Greg."

"Oh? How is he?"

"His cold is still hanging on, I'm afraid."

"That's a shame. It's been a few days, hasn't it?"

"Almost a week. I'll call the doctor if there's no real improvement soon."

G
reg wasn't certain what he'd heard: It had invaded his sleep, transformed his dreams, and awakened him.

He sat up in the huge bed, caught a glimpse of himself in the floor-standing mirror opposite the bed, and looked away quickly.

He wondered if it was Little Rat he'd heard, if Little Rat wanted him to wake up and so had called to him. No, he decided: Little Rat came to this room at night, when it was easier to sneak around. Besides, what he had heard sounded more like a siren. Or a scream. A scream like that he'd heard once before—the night his father left the house.

He climbed determinedly out of the bed. He went to the door. And jumped back, but too late. The door swung open, and hit him hard. He tumbled backward, rolled reflexively. He lay still, on his stomach, momentarily breathless.

Marilyn stepped into the room. "Stand up," he heard.

He hesitated very briefly, then pushed himself to a sitting position. He put his hand on his forehead, took it away, saw a tiny smear of blood on his fingers. "I'm bleeding," he said, and realized that, in jumping back, he had stooped over just enough that the glass doorknob hit him. "I'm bleeding," he repeated, fascinated, disgusted, frightened by the sight of his own blood.

"Stand up," he heard again.

Clumsily, he stood and faced his mother.

"We've discussed this before, haven't we, Greg?" "Yes, Mommy." He had no idea what she was talking about; he knew only what she wanted him to say. "And if I remember correctly, the last time we discussed it, Mrs.
Bennet
was here, too."